<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>invisible letters to disappeared darlings by Anonymous</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376244">invisible letters to disappeared darlings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ILTDD-Verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Love Simon Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bittersweet, Child Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Secret Santa, but happy ending! mostly, leans into the five reasons side of things, this started out as a simon vs au and went a little bit off the rails, we hate Richard Peele</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:15:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“And he wrote, throughout the thousands of days he spent at the sky-blue cottage by the sea, using up towers and gallons of paper and ink, invisible letters to disappeared darlings, the fulfillment of a oath.” ~ Eleanor Ilde, <em> Nectar of an Illusionist’s City. </em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ILTDD-Verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, TGGTVAV Secret Santa exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. cold air on my skin doesn't clear my head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookfairy/gifts">thebookfairy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I should note that every piece of media I claim to be referencing, including all the songs, bands, and quotations in the summaries, are fictional. I made them up, because I’m Like That. (Also, there is a reference to a song by the Accidentals in one of them, and also something that I put in exclusively to annoy one person who may or may not read this.)</p><p>This is a secret santa gift for Aarushi! I hope you enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>From: threepurplenewts@gmail.com </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Sep 2 8:31 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: Re: happy fuckin’ monday</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aren’t we cheerful and optimistic. Over-dramatic as ever. It doesn’t matter, though. I actually kind of like it. It’s endearing. Well, you’re endearing, but you know that. Everyone thinks so, and you’ve told me enough stories that I know you use that charm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I write this it is Monday night and I am sitting in my room, silence all around me in every direction. My guardians aren’t home right now, so it’s just me. I was tempted to listen to music, but couldn’t think of anything I wanted to hear (if you have suggestions, I promise I will listen to them) so I decided to write to you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Re the math test you mentioned: I bet you did fine. You're smarter than you think you are. I just hope you've done your homework already, before checking your email. When I have enough self-restraint, I always do, because as soon as I check this email, I want to write back, or, if you haven't written, write another email, ask you more questions. I want to know everything about you (besides the obvious, name and appearance and all that, to preserve anonymity).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, I’m having trouble thinking of anything else you want to hear. I know you’re rolling your eyes and thinking something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything you tell me is good, darling,</span>
  </em>
  <span> (and I am cursing myself for the fact that my skin isn’t dark enough to erase my ability to blush) but my brain is fried from school and I don’t go to parties enough to have good stories. Besides, the more I tell you about school, the more likely it is that you’ll figure me out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What are you thinking about? There, now that I've asked, you'll have something to say to me, and it'll be easier for me to think of something to say to you. I'm thinking about silence. I love silence. It's a space I can use to create something beautiful with my music (you do remember I play the violin, right?), an arena for conversation. A thing made to be broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know I'm bored out of my mind when I start getting philosophical. I'll stop here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Vio</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Sep 2 2:48 AM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: Re: re: happy fuckin' monday</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hello, darling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm imagining you blushing, even though I don't actually know what you look like (but you said dark skin, which informs my scrambled mental perception of you a tiny bit. I didn't know that before.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I checked this email, I was thinking about equations and all the ways I definitely failed this test. My father will be angry with me, but it's fine. I deserve it anyways. (If I’m lucky, I won't get hit.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now that I've read your email, I'm thinking about silence too. I'm the opposite-- I hate silence. I prefer loud crowds, pounding music, being able to scream at the top of my lungs. (And all of those things go along with drinking, and beautiful people who are often interested in me to some degree, which makes it even better.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't like metaphorical silence either. Secrets, lies, dishonesty. Which is a problem, because my life is absolutely chock-full of metaphorical silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seems like I never say anything I really mean. Even to you-- I don't lie to you, though, you're one of the only people I've never lied to. But I don't tell you everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They say people should open up, let their feelings out, be honest. I don't do that. If I open any of the doors in the ramshackle building that is my heart, it'll all collapse to the ground. I'll shatter. Or someone else will shatter me first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, this is a downer of an email. I don't mean to bother you and I don't mean to worry you. I'm going to take a break from this. Maybe I'll do my homework (no, I didn't do it already).</span>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <span>Well, it is about two AM and I am in a much better mood. Before you ask, I am not at a party on a school night. I'm just sitting in my room, not doing much of anything, but I finished my homework and stole my sister's leftovers (one of her friends can cook, and they made pancakes yesterday, and she absolutely won't notice that I took a few.) I'm blasting music. Everyone always says that I'll go deaf by the time I'm twenty-five if I keep playing it through my headphones so loudly, but I really don't care. That's an issue for the future adult me to figure out (if he even ever makes it that far).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I've just remembered that you asked me to recommend you music. I don't know what you like, so I'll just give you the first songs that come to mind when I think of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adelaide by Fire Fortuna. I suppose it's technically about a woman, but you cannot seriously tell me the singer isn't actually talking about a guy he met on the subway or in the street or something who gave him his number, met up with him a few times, and then disappeared on him, leaving him heartbroken but still better having met him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>exhuming yr memory by roller disco firepower. It's sad, I guess, but it sounds so neat, with all these harmonies, and this badass electric violin solo in the middle of it. I feel like you'd appreciate it (and of course I remembered that you play the violin). It's one of those songs with intellectual and poetic value, but who can pay attention to that when the music itself is so captivating you can't help but dance? It makes me think about falling in love (not that I’m in love, but if I were-- well, my heart belongs to you).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And finally, because I've already gone on for far too long, Frozen Blood by Arizona &amp; the Jackpines. It's a ballad of some sort, and actually where I got both my email and my alias. If you do actually listen to them, tell me what you think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Pierre</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Monty Montague had been getting through the day, and everything had been as perfect as possible as far as he’d been concerned. He’d gone to bed at three AM after writing to Vio (by the standards of normal people, he should've gone to bed earlier, but with enough coffee and a stolen sip of gin from his father’s bottle he managed to be functional in the morning). Unluckily for him, he had a free period first thing in the morning, which in Monty’s opinion was far too early to be functional. He should be studying, but he would much rather linger at one of the library's student computers, refreshing his secret email inbox in hopes that Vio has written back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s a bit attached to Vio, if by 'attached' one means that he cares more about him than he’s ever cared about a significant number of people whom he’s actually met, and definitely more than anyone he’s ever actually kissed. Even though Monty and Vio have never met in real life, and both refuse to tell each other anything significant about themselves, Monty at least knows they go to the same school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes comfort in that, in knowing that he can walk these hallways, sit at battered desks and worn lunch tables, and know that Vio is there too. The prospect of actually meeting him is terrifying, but somewhere in these crowds, he's out here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After about twenty minutes, he gives up. Vio's competent and studious; most likely, he spent whatever spare time he had before school studying or practicing his violin, and had no time to reply. Monty’s often impressed by his ability to be perfect in absolutely every way, but he can’t say he isn’t a bit bothered that Vio prioritizes other things over emailing back (which, when he looks back at it, sounds very possessive. Monty considers that perhaps he thinks of himself as the center of the universe a bit too much. Vio doesn’t even know who he is, and Monty prefers it that way.) Regardless, there's no point in sitting here reloading the page anymore, so he gets up from the computer chair, collapsing onto a couch among the bookshelves. With luck, he’ll manage to drift off to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ten minutes of relative piece and quiet Monty is granted before his mess of a life plunges even more sharply downhill is not nearly enough for him to get any significant rest. In fact, he’s barely dozing when someone kicks the couch and says his name, far too loudly and far too close to his ear for anyone to be comfortable with. “Monty! Monty, wake up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m awake,” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. The person who disturbed his rest leans over him, only a few inches from his face. Without actually recognizing them, Monty can tell it isn’t a teacher, as his name is listed in all their attendance records as Henry Montague, so he doesn’t hurry, instead stretches dramatically and groans several times to express his displeasure at being bothered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the face above him comes into focus, Monty recognizes him as Richard Peele (or so he’s pretty sure, a kid who sat next to him in math class a year or two ago.He’s got a strange expression on his face; determined, but with a bit of bite to it, as if he knows exactly what he wants and has enough power to get it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What d'you want from me?” Monty asks, a bit more harshly than necessary. “Get to the point, it’s too early to dance around it. And if you’re just here for a friendly chat, I’m not interested in talking about the weather or the history homework.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All right, then. You left your email open on your computer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What? No, I didn't." Of course, this is untrue. Monty had left the computer desk without logging out or turning it off, but he realizes this a second too late, and by now he’s dug himself deep enough that he finds it unwise to go back. “You must be thinking of someone else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw you sitting at the computer, and then I needed the computer. Shattered dot aftermath. I don’t know the song you said it’s referencing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter to you,” Monty snaps, then realizes the implications.  “You read my email?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Peele looks almost apologetic. “I couldn’t help it. You left it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much did you read? And why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, a few. But I also took a few screenshots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty stifles a few choice words and pulls Richard Peele by the collar down towards me until he can hiss into his ear. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>what.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took screenshots,” he repeats. “It seemed like the thing to do. You’ve been untouchable for years, Monty Montague.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he says it makes Monty want to laugh, or cry, and for a moment he’s tossed roughly back in his mind to a thousand occasions, and specifically the day after he’d returned home from summer camp in upstate New York. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me, untouchable?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “What are you trying to do? Is this blackmail?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head. “Those emails are a bit… revelatory, don’t you think? I sent them to myself, but I could easily send them somewhere else, or post them online.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be an awful person if you did. That’d ruin my life.” Even straight boys like Richard have to know that being queer in this particular area isn’t a cakewalk. Monty isn’t in the closet, per se; there are people who know, mostly boys he’s been with at parties when both of them were drunk out of our minds. He doesn’t advertise it, and most likely hasn’t said the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>bisexual </span>
  </em>
  <span>out loud in years. If he ever tells people he isn’t ashamed of it, he’d be lying. But regardless of his feelings on the subject, his life would be over, metaphorically speaking (and even literally, if things get so bad in the fallout that he could no longer take the strain of being alive) if his father found out. Monty is starting to panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can I do to keep you from doing that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles; it’s the most genuine expression he’s revealed during the entirety of their conversation. “Now we’re talking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richard, who Monty’d barely known before today, has now revealed himself to be an utterly awful person. In his words, he's "straight but interested in experimenting</span>
  <em>
    <span>”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and on the condition that Monty agrees to do various things with him for some unspecified amount of time, he won't publish the screenshots that spell his doom. He’d said he could could have a day to think about it, but as soon as he leaves, Monty knows exactly what he’ll have to do: whatever he wants to keep him from posting the stolen emails, which would out both him and Vio. Monty hasn’t been searching for Vio, out of respect for his privacy, but his father or his friends or the entire school could easily compare notes and smoke him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only real question Monty considers is whether to tell Vio what's going on. The ethical thing to do would be to tell him. By all rights, he deserves to know that Monty’s carelessness has put both of them at the mercy of Richard Peele. But somehow Monty can't bear it. At home, in his cold bedroom with silence rushing against his ears, he drafts email after email explaining everything, and deletes all of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Vio knew they’re being blackmailed, he would freak out, which he has every right to do. But more likely than not, he would stop emailing. And Monty is certain he simply can't let that happen. Some part of him thinks that he’d lose all desire to function if there would never again be an email to look forward to.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I can't lose him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So Monty forces himself to do his homework and waits for Vio's innocent, unknowing reply with an ache deep in the pit of his stomach.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. life-and-death arithmetic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“He is in danger, and I cannot think of anything else. Love isn’t blind, it’s a blindfold.” ~ Joseph Maria Carlinson, <em>Self-Unmade Women.</em></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>From: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 3 3:27 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: aftermath?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pierre (oh, Pierre), I don’t know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I listened to them. I'm glad I did, I guess. I suppose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'll start with the easy parts of it. I liked Adelaide. I think you're right about it-- it absolutely has very queer energy. If I'm being honest, it sounds like the author originally wrote it about a man and then changed the pronouns last-minute to befit a heterosexual audience. Regardless, it's a queer song in my heart and I added it to my playlist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And you were right about the second song-- exhuming yr memory. I liked it a lot, honestly. Isn't that what you'd want, if you died? For someone to lift your ghost to the mantelpiece? To remember you? It's what I'd want, I know. When I have to die (and that won't be for a while, I know; I'm careful to keep myself safe) I don't want to disappear off the face of the earth. Knowing that I had an impact, that people still care when I'm gone, would be-- comforting, I suppose. Even if I'm dead and can't know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I suppose it doesn't matter. Because I'd be dead, and I'd lose so much I think it wouldn't matter if everyone lost me too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Frozen Blood. Oh, Pierre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like a waste, how little I can say to make up for this. Maybe I'm assuming too much, but you chose Pierre after the boy in the song who lost everything up to and including himself. You made your email the shattered aftermath. So you must (I've said this to myself a thousand times now) identify with him, see yourself in him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't want you to swallow your shame. I want you to be all right. You deserve that, to be all right. You don't deserve to end up like Pierre, drunk on a rooftop and choking on mud and half-frozen blood, like they say in the song. (Of course, Pierre didn't deserve that either, but you're real, and you're alive, and I don't know where I'm going with this or what the right thing to say is.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is there anything I can do? It worries me. You’ve told me about your father (and you don’t deserve to be hurt, you never have and you never will, and I will tell you this over and over again). I've had my doubts, before, been concerned when you stay up so late and get so drunk and say things you don't seem to mean to tell me-- but this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't think less of you. I promise. You're allowed to feel like this. Your feelings aren't the problem. But I wish I could do something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'll give you five reasons not to be dead, if you want them. Tell me if you need them. I can give them to you. It’ll get better. Soon, it’ll get better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I've listened to this song a thousand times now. I can recite all the lyrics from memory. But what I still don't know is whether Pierre dies at the end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>- Vio</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the first three weeks of school, English had been Percy’s least favorite class. It wasn't that he struggled, or blew it off, or tried as hard as he could but wound up with failing grades regardless; in fact, it was the opposite. Stringing words together had never been a difficult thing for him. He didn't even have to pay attention half the time to get an A on every paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which made it excruciatingly mind-numbing, especially given that the teacher kept the classroom dark and warm and spoke in a quiet, nervous voice. He seemed nice enough, and obviously knew what he was doing when it came to the actual content, but didn't seem to know how to speak to other people at all. All this made it very difficult for Percy to keep awake-- for the first three weeks, that is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the fourth Monday morning, he noticed the boy three seats to his left. After that, he wasn't any more attentive to the lesson, but he was a lot less bored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His name, Percy learned, was Henry Montague, but he preferred Monty, and no one ever called him Henry except for the teacher, who always read everyone's full legal names out. He was a bit on the short side, stocky and solid, and had beautiful blond hair that glinted even in the feeble rays of sunlight that could make their way through the heavy curtains in the English classroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And today, it is an almost ordinary Wednesday, and Percy has spent every English class for the last few weeks looking at Monty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Henry Montague?" the teacher calls out, and Monty raises his hand. He didn't come in late today-- he's a few moments late more often than not, but today he was a whole minute early. Percy has to reassure himself that he isn’t a stalker or being creepy by paying this much attention to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monty is present, thank you," he says, grinning. His smile is extraordinary. He doesn’t know Percy’s name, and has absolutely no reason to pay attention to him given how popular he seems to be. Regardless, Percy can’t help but long for his attention. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lord, what I would give for one of those smiles to be aimed at me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ordinarily, he’d take a few moments to watch Monty, to see him settle himself in his chair or run a hand through his pretty hair or look back to smile at someone behind him.Today, though, he’s a bit preoccupied-- too preoccupied to even stare at Monty's smile. Pierre, although most likely not present, is taking up all of his attention, and Pierre is much more important to him than Monty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty is ephemeral, substanceless-- a pretty face who makes his heart pound out of his chest when he smiles and nothing more. They don’t know each other. Percy knows his smile and his voice and his mannerisms, and everything he shows to an English class of people he doesn't care about. He doesn't talk much except at attendance, he whispers to the person beside him if they're one of his friends, he has a healthy dose of disdain for the classics and perhaps even English in general. He's a scattering of facts, little tidbits of information, the tiniest scrapings from the iceberg in his head (because Percy is certain he's more than is visible in a wistful glance from three desks away).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Pierre is real to him. Which is a bit ironic, because Pierre is the one who he’s never met, who he’s fallen in love with entirely through his writing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pierre is also the one who all but told him that he's got suicidal ideation or intent via a song recommendation, so he has absolutely no time to look at Monty Montague. Since last afternoon when Percy managed to get around to listening to the songs he sent him, his brain's been working overtime.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If there's one thing I know, it's that I could not handle losing Pierre. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He feels like they’ve been emailing for years, even though he knows it's only been a few months since he put that post on the school Tumblr and Pierre left his email in the comments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been lonely. He’d written about loneliness, the empty spaces between people where the secrets you're keeping from them slot into place. He wrote about how no one knows he’s gay, about how no one outside his family knows he has epilepsy, and how he feels like no one will ever truly understand, because everyone is too scared to get close enough to even try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Pierre did try. And even though Pierre absolutely doesn't understand everything (of course he doesn't, for how could he? The mere idea of someone knowing everything about a person is laughable) he understands enough. And he tries. Percy knows for a fact that he tries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he’s probably overthinking this, but he doesn’t know what else it could mean. So all through English class, he scribbles five-point lists in the margins of his notes. Not just five reasons when all totaled up; tens, scores, hundreds, as many reasons not to be dead as he can possibly grind out of his feeble and useless head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Percy drops his tray on his usual table at lunchtime, the clamor around him is deafening, as always. Unsurprisingly, he’s the first of the group to have made it here. It's not that his friends are particularly prone to lateness, but almost all of them are in classes far from the cafeteria, and as much as he tells them to save their spines, they carry extremely heavy backpacks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Theyŕe orchestra kids, all of them, except for one lone choir girl who Percy’s hardly spoken to (as far as he knows, she's friends with the freshman bassist who already outshines even the seniors). No one could call them the height of popularity, but there's a sense of camaraderie that he loves. Sometimes he stares across the lunchroom, looking for Monty, and wondering whether in other social circles there's the same safety, the same net of in-jokes and the brief feeling of belonging, even when the people you sit with know nothing about you besides who you are with a bow in your hands. There must be. He’s convinced Monty must have that same fleeting sense of slotting into place.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Does Pierre feel it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wonders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone arrives in a pack at that moment, crowding in next to him and chorusing a hello. Percy only waves back, as at that moment his mouth is full of the cafeteria's mediocre spaghetti. The familiar hubbub of banter settles around him like a cloud of mist, and he allows himself to relax. He doesn’t have to think about Pierre for this second. He's not going to die in the space of the lunch period. His friends are laughing, and if he doesn’t push his worries aside and adapt to the mood of the group, someone will ask what's wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just taken a sip of water and pushed his thoughts firmly to the back of his mind when he sees Monty Montague slipping out the cafeteria door, which is strange in itself. He's usually not even here in the first place; perhaps he's sneaking out of campus, or standing around in the hallways, or any of the other things that the cool kids do on their lunch breaks. Regardless, it's odd that he decided to come into the cafeteria at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips out quietly, turning sideways so he doesn't have to shove the door all the way open. Right behind him is a boy Percy barely recognize; he’s got to wrack his brain to remember that his name is Richard Peele.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard Peele, Percy knows, is objectively very handsome, popular, and rich, almost a carbon copy of Monty on paper. The major difference between the two of them is how utterly forgettable Richard is-- but that doesn't mean he doesn't have good qualities under the surface. There's no reason to believe Monty's queer (and it's probably just Percy’s wishful thinking) but if he were, Richard Peele would be an obvious choice for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The choir girl nudges him-- Percy hadn’t even realized she's sitting on his other side. "Are you all right?" she asks. "You look distracted."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves her off and tries desperately to remember her name. "Oh, I'm fine." </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's only that I'm jealous of Richard Peele, but I'm not saying that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah. You might want to actually pay attention to the conversation, Percy. You know if you get too lost in the clouds, they'll start gossiping about you."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drat</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Since she obviously knows his name, Percy suddenly feels as if he’s committed some kind of conversational sin by failing to recall hers. "Perhaps. But I don't particularly mind being gossiped about, in all honesty. It's all in good fun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her bassist friend (whose name is Sim, although Percy barely manages to recall it at the moment) laughs from behind her hand. "Yes, Johanna. I'm certain you're the only one who minds it."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Johanna-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and now Percy knows her name, which relieves him more than a bit-- whirls around to face Sim. "I do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>mind</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. It's just a bit disorienting when people you don't know so well gossip about you-- might I remind you that I only know the names of half the people at this table?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which is why no one gossips about you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> gossip about me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because I am your friend."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johanna harrumphs, and Sim laughs again, and they continue with their conversation. Percy is simply relieved that the two of them aren't paying attention to him anymore. The rest of lunch should be easy to get through, as long as he doesn’t think about Monty, Richard Peele, or Pierre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Percy gets home, he checks his email-- and if he told someone he didn’t nearly have a metaphorical heart attack when he saw a new unread message, he’d be lying. Judging from the timestamp, Percy can guess he snuck off and replied during lunch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 4 12:14 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: re: aftermath?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can think whatever you want to think about the song. I've had a pretty bad day, and I have absolutely no energy to reassure you or confirm your suspicions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'd like five reasons, please.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Pierre</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Homework can wait. Percy has enough time to take care of his friend, to do the little he can do without knowing his real name or face or how else to check in. He settles himself down in his chair and gives his Pierre five reasons not to be dead.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. hot breath on my neck, choke down shame instead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Losing your home is an exquisite form of torture; worse still is never having one in the first place, but most terrible of all is no longer being permitted to return.” ~ Nightingale Corentin, <em> Daughter of a Dead Man. </em></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>From: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 5 1:23 AM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: re: five reasons</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thank you, Vio. I'm glad to have you. Those are some pretty good reasons, if I'm being honest today (or more honest than usual).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(You also asked if there's anything specific that's gone wrong with my life. And there is (aside from my father and the parties), but I don't want to tell you. Please, Vio, don't ask. What you don't know won't hurt you, I think. Probably. Besides, I can handle it on my own. I can deal with it, trust me.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's probably too late for me to think straight (as if I ever think straight, hah). I'm also a tiny bit drunk. My father generally doesn't notice if I sneak sips of whiskey from our liquor cabinet. My sister (god, I almost typed her name, and if I hadn't caught that, you'd have been able to find me so easily) always notices, though. She sends me disapproving looks every time she catches me smelling like alcohol, but she's just my sister. She can't hit me over anything I do, just snipes at me like an overgrown mousetrap. I assume she has friends, or interests, or something, but all she's ever shown interest in around me is throwing verbal knives at my head or reading her way through breakfast. I don't know what she reads. She always hides her phone when I try to check. Probably it's just bad smut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I had to pick a favorite family member, I think I'd pick my sister anyway. My mother is all right, I suppose, but she doesn't really notice anything. Or if she does notice, she never says anything. And my father is another case entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What is your family like? You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to, but you mentioned having guardians rather than parents (and this is much too intrusive, I'm sorry, I'll stop).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I should delete that last line, but I don't generally edit my emails. I feel like if I did, I'd never send anything. It's more like a conversation this way, if I can't change any mistakes I make. You can't unsay things in real life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Do you think we'd be friends in real life?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder about that a lot. I wonder whether you're sitting next to me in my math class or rushing by me in the halls or four lockers down from mine. At a party last week I was standing in the front room, people knocking into me from all directions, and there was a very pretty girl holding my hand. For most of the night I was focused on her (because lord, I know you don't swing that way, but let me just say she was absolutely beautiful and quite well-endowed). But for a moment, I wasn't thinking about her, or dancing, or getting another shot. The realization hit me that I didn't know the names of half the people in the room. There was no reason for me to believe one of them couldn't be you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But don’t take my saying this the wrong way. Even though I wonder, I don’t want to know-- or I suppose I do, actually. I just don’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know who I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Pierre</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richard Peele is quite enthusiastic about gay experimentation. Monty’s beginning to think he's actually not straight, and is in fact simply deep, deep in the closet. Regardless, Peele keeps pulling him away for quick meetups in closets and bathroom stalls and behind the school building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not the worst thing he’s ever done. If not for the blackmail bit of it, Monty might have even enjoyed it, to some degree. Peele is a good kisser, and he picks up everything else quite quickly. It's hard to believe Monty’s the first boy he's been with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It'd be fine, except for the blackmail bit, and the fact Monty has to see his smug face around all the time. He’d much prefer they see each other exclusively in the context of broom closets and other semi-private locales, but now that he knows a bit more about him, he finally realizes that Richard is in half of his classes and frequents the halls far too much. The pointed glances he shoots at Monty when they pass each other gives him a heart attack every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't help that he’s offended Vio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty concludes that he must have offended him, because he's being ignored. Since the email where Vio gave him five reasons not to be dead, which helped him a ridiculous amount, especially because of the knowledge that Monty is not the only one who would notice if he were gone, he hadn’t gotten any correspondence. The logical conclusion is that the last email he sent offended Vio, hurt his feelings, or both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a possibility that Vio is simply busy, except that Vio always manages to make time for him.Which he in fact does, and which Vio is apparently uninterested in doing. And as hard as Monty tries, it's difficult not to take that as a personal insult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So by the end of the following week (he’s had a week and three days of complete radio silence from Vio, and it's driving him mad) he’s in need of a break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t help that he hasn’t been talking to Vio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, they’ve been emailing, but Monty hasn’t said anything of substance. He talks about homework, talks about music, talks about anything except his family and Richard Peele and how dramatically awful everything is becoming. Vio still doesn’t know they’re being blackmailed, still doesn’t know how scared he is of being found out, how much worse things could possibly get.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’ll get better, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Vio promises him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Soon, it’ll get better.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A party's being held at someone's house. Monty has no idea whose house, but he got the address from Sinjon Westfall, who told him he'd be glad if he came. Sinjon has very pretty blue eyes, a fact which Monty was sure to mention in the email he sent Vio just before he left. A small part of him wants to make Vio jealous, and he knows for a fact Vio isn’t Sinjon, since Vio told him he’s dark-skinned. No one will be good enough for him if they're not Vio, he knows that, but Sinjon is pretty and fun, so why shouldn't he go on to Vio about his eyes as blue as… Monty fails to find an adequate comparison. Vio is the poet, not him. Christmas lights, perhaps. Or crabs. Little scuttling crabs you see by the shore of the ocean, the kind he associates with possibility and freedom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father doesn't think Monty should go to parties, but he doesn’t have to know. He creeps down the stairs past his parents' bedroom (it’s dark there, so he knows his mother must be asleep), my father's study (there's light seeping from under the door, but Monty makes it past without him opening it to see who's creeping about at midnight), and into the front room to put on his shoes. The laces have gotten knotted somehow, and it takes him a good five minutes of sitting on the floor before he can get them undone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But bless his luck, when he gets to his feet, his sister is leaning over him. She's got a jacket on, and the boots she wears everywhere when she's outside, so it's obvious that she's sneaking out too. "What are you doing, Felicity?" Monty hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I could ask you the same question," she whispers. "Going to a party? No, let me guess, a hookup with one of your three or four girlfriends. Or smoking marijuana in someone's back garden with some boy you're into."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty is suddenly struck by the urge to slap her. "What about you? Slipping out to meet with your romance novel book club? Writing fanfiction of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fifty Shades of Gray?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you must know, I'm going to a lecture on recent breakthroughs in skin cancer treatment. A much more reputable destination than wherever you're heading, although our parents would say differently."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How are you getting there?" Monty didn't know Felicity was interested in medicine,  and the revelation almost makes him want to see her differently. Maybe she's the smart one in this family-- assuming that's actually what she's doing and that it isn't some clever lie to disguise her actual intentions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs and points to her boots. "Walking. To the bus stop, and then taking the bus, and then walking some more. How else? Some of us are fourteen and don't have driver's licences."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can drive you," he says before he really knows what he’s doing. "I've got a car. No one will mind if I'm late."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks taken aback. "Really?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why would I offer if I didn't mean it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To be a prick to me, why else?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fair." Monty stands up and heads out to the garage, turning back in the doorway. "You coming or not?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does, grudgingly, and sits in the front seat of my car next to him. Monty assigns her to navigation, as is proper by the laws of shotgun etiquette. It's not a tricky job, and the two of them absolutely could be having a heart-to-heart sibling bonding chat, but Monty doubts either of them would enjoy that at all, so they drive in silence-- for about five minutes. After that, it becomes deathly awkward, and Monty feels obligated to break it. "So, you're interested in cancer treatments? I didn't know that about you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why would you? Since when have you been in any way interested in what I do with my spare time?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. "Since now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well. Yes, I'm interested in medicine. I would like to go to medical school someday. Get out of this town, go to college, study hard, and become a doctor. Not that our parents will fund my medical ambitions, but if I can manage it-- get a scholarship, or something-- that's what I'd like to do with my life. So yes, I spend my free time studying medicine and sneak out of the house to go to lectures. What about you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What about me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes. "What do you do with your free time? Besides go to parties and come home drunk at five in the morning."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty graciously chooses to ignore her insults. "I write emails."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>write emails</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have a friend who I enjoy writing emails to, yes, as I can't meet and speak to him in person."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah." She looks over at him; Monty turns his head at exactly the right moment for their eyes to meet. "Well-- at least there's something you really like."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like lots of things."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You like things like drinking and kissing pretty people. That's not the same as having a friend for company."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut up, Feli. I have plenty of friends."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs. "Sure you do, Monty. I'm sure everyone who sits at the same lunch table as you cares an enormous amount about your personal life when you're not smoking with them or doing them in back alleyways."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty looks away. She doesn't add anything, and he doesn’t reply; if she regrets saying that, she doesn't show it. She's not wrong, exactly. The only true friend Monty has is Vio-- he's definitely the only one who would be upset (or even notice) if he suddenly disappeared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has Monty drop her off outside some sort of building in the next town over and doesn't thank him as she's leaving. "I'm not coming back for you," he shouts after her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll take the bus back, then," she calls back without looking at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Monty arrives, the party is already in full swing. People are playing beer pong, someone's standing on every table in the room, and there's music blasting so loudly he can hardly hear himself think, which makes it much easier to not think at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Particularly after he gets himself some alcohol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s already had three drinks before it even occurs to him that he should look for someone he knows. Sinjon Westfall is definitely here, but he’s sure half his friends (or, well, not friends, more people he knows) are scattered around the house or causing chaos in the back garden. He wouldn't be surprised if Richard Peele is here, either, except for the fact that he'd have probably found him by now and dragged him off to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Someone is smashing a coffee table in the living room, but no one there, crowded around to watch the chaos, seems like the kind of person he could easily convince to sneak away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes his drink and heads to the liquor table to get another one, but before he can ask the bored guy standing there for a cup of the strongest thing he's got, someone wraps an arm around his shoulder, whispering in his ear. "How drunk are you, sweet Monty?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a guy; he smells like whiskey, but he seems to have full control of his limbs and isn't slurring his words, which tells Monty he’s actually interested in him, rather than having fallen onto him in the desperate hope that he'd be able to keep his balance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nearly sober, darling," he says aloud, turning his head and squinting in the hopes that he’ll be able to recognize him. The lights are too low for it to be easily done, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then don't ruin that by getting another drink, sweetheart." He clings tighter to me. The guy minding the bar is giving us a sideways glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, if you're going to hang on me like that, I think I'll have to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He immediately lets go of me, then grabs my hand. "No. Come with me, Monty."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mystery guy pulls me across the room; we bump into a few people on our way, but Monty smiles apologetically and blows kisses at them, and they don't seem to mind. Out of the corner of my eye, he sees Richard Peele's blond hair. Peele doesn’t seem to have seen him, but he would still like to get out of here quickly, so he walks a bit faster to match Mystery Guy's pace. Once he's been dragged up the stairs, where the light is brighter and he’s away from the nefarious influence of Richard Fucking Blackmailer Peele, Monty can see his face and recognize him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Sinjon. Sinjon Westfall, with the stunning blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you for inviting me," Monty whispers, leaning close to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course I invited you, Monty. You're charming. The party would be no fun without you-- and it is my party."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, so this is </span>
  </em>
  <span>his</span>
  <em>
    <span> house that's full of drunken teenagers. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He'll have a time cleaning it up tomorrow. Monty would bet that at least one window is broken already and the carpet is probably stained. If his parents are oblivious, they won't notice that the house is cleaner than when they left it. Monty’s father is absolutely not oblivious, which is why he’s never the one to host the parties.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sinjon is looking expectantly at him, and he suddenly realizes he must have said something else. "Sorry, what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You have pretty hair," he says for the second time. "Of course you do. It's as pretty as the rest of you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, darling. You have lovely eyes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you. Can I touch your hair?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only if I can touch your eyes." Monty chuckles, then immediately worries that it was in poor taste or that he won't get it. "No, you can touch it. I'm only joking. I won't touch your eyes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs softly and reaches up to put his hand on his head, stroking his hair with absurd gentleness. For a moment Monty’s floundering out of his depths. No one's ever really touched him like this before; it's always been quick and dirty, the furthest thing from gentle or sweet possible. He genuinely doesn’t know how to react to him doing this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he cups Monty’s face and pulls him into a kiss, which is much, much easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty knows how to kiss. He’s a splendid kisser, or so he’s been told, and it's a familiar motion, an easy bit of muscle memory; pulling him closer, wrapping an arm around his waist, backing off and lightening up when he doesn't seem responsive. And yet even this is odd; he's sweet and gentle, like they’re sixth graders kissing on a swing set or parents kissing in front of children or people who have been in love so long that it's no longer important for them to make the most out of touching each other. It's not like anyone else Monty has ever kissed while slightly drunk upstairs at a party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he really considers it, though, it makes sense. Sinjon is sweet and kind and adorable. Of course he kisses like Prince Charming. The strangest thing to him is that he actually quite likes it. So he doesn’t pull away, waiting for him to move instead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I may never be kissed like this again. I'm making it count.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn't time for Sinjon to pull away on his own, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A camera flashes, so bright Monty can see it even with closed eyes, and he stumbles back frantically, shoving Sinjon into the wall behind him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone's photographed us-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>the knowledge nearly makes his heart stop. Sinjon is grunting in pain, which is Monty’s fault, and he feels a twinge of guilt for the bruises he’s sure will result-- he knows better than anyone how much a bruise can sting-- but figuring out who took the picture and threatening them or charming them until they delete it or hand it over is much more time-sensitive and important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whirls to face-- Richard Peele, Richard </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> Peele, with a cell phone in his hand, scowling at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing he thinks to do is put his hands up (and his father's voice instantly echoes in his head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>because now that's who Peele reminds me of, apparently</span>
  </em>
  <span>). "Look, Richard--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, Monty?” he growls. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richard. Please don’t be angry. I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean to.” He’s beginning to panic. Sinjon, behind him, is openly staring, baffled. Monty whirls to face him. "You should go. Just-- go. Before you get tangled up in this." Sinjon doesn't need any other excuse to flee the scene, bolting down the stairs before Richard has the time to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monty," Richard says in a low tone. "Why were you kissing him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't know you would see."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty keeps quiet. Richard is walking towards him with measured steps, his jaw set and is fist clenched, and he's flashing back to all the other times a man has looked at him like that-- so he runs. Monty is faster, more nimble, able to dodge when Richard gives a swing at his head, able to dart through the crowds of people on the bottom floor and out the front door to freedom.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But after that he has nowhere to go but home.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. think i’m getting motion-sick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Still I lie in wait / And take out my anger on whoever touches me.” ~ Ren X. Peters-Yang, “Stormy Adeline”.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>From: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 15 3:30 am</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: falling apart</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vio i'm so sorry so damn sorrry i shouldn't have lied to you help please everything has gone wrong vio i'm scared</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 16 7:27 am</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: re: falling apart</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pierre? Pierre, what happened?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what you lied about. I don’t know what happened. I won’t be angry if you tell me. I’m on your side. I’m always on your side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Please, tell me if you’re safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-Vio</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pierre isn't replying to Percy's emails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's cruel. He doesn't know what happened, what Pierre lied about, or anything about what's actually gone wrong. All he knows is that Pierre was terrified out of his mind for some reason at three-thirty in the morning last night, had the time to send him and email, but couldn't respond since. He knows he can't respond, because Pierre obviously would have responded if he could. Percy's sent half a dozen frantic emails already. Pierre wouldn't leave him in the dark intentionally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever happened, it was terrible. Whatever happened is incapacitating Pierre for now. Whatever happened, he can't tell his aunt and uncle. They're not particularly supportive-- they've grudgingly accepted that he's gay, but don't have any interest in hearing about it. They want him quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And whatever it is that happened to Pierre (Percy's starting to wonder if it had anything to do with his father, or with alcohol, or with someone at a party with less-than-good intentions, or the failure of five reasons to be enough, or any combination of those) he can't do anything to help. Pierre doesn't want to see him in person. He's made that very clear. No matter how much Percy would have loved to meet him under ordinary circumstances, and no matter how crucial it might be to his safety right now, Pierre hasn't told him anything about how to find him, and Percy has to respect his boundaries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So all he can do is sit and stew in his own thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can certainly understand Pierre's position-- opening yourself up to someone else its utterly terrifying. It's easier in writing, when you can censor anything you don't want to be known. Sometimes Percy wonders if meeting Pierre would do more harm than good. There's no way for him to know that Pierre will actually like him when they're in person. Seeing him, knowing him, the real him and not the parts he's let Pierre see already, he doesn't know that Pierre will still care about him. Percy knows a lot about conditional love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it better to dream, to long for someone untouchable like Monty, than to get too close to someone real and risk being shattered to pieces? Pierre might not necessarily want him in real life. If he never talks to anyone he might want to date, they can never hurt him. Rejection has never been easy for him-- but then again, is it easy for anyone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These aren't his questions to ponder. No matter what he decides, it'll be Pierre's choice. Pierre is the one with reservations. Percy knows that if he were given the opportunity, he'd jump into it with open arms. Now, more than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't do anything. The radio silence driving him out of mind with worry, static filling up his ears and eating away at his thoughts. It's only been a few hours of school, but it feels like an eternity. His head is too full of drafted emails to let anything else through.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you need five reasons? I'll give you five reasons.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pierre. Please tell me what's wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you need help? Are you safe? Are you even alive? Pierre. Please talk to me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy doesn't sit with his usual group at lunch. Instead, he finds a seat by himself in a courtyard, picks at his lunch, and thinks again over what on earth could have happened to Pierre. He'd mentioned a party in the last email, although he'd talked more about some boy called Sinjon and his apparently stunning blue eyes-- could he have gotten drunk and ended up lost or kidnapped or worse? The timestamp on his last email is some clue-- he knows that Pierre was alive at the early hours in the morning. Something must have happened between then and now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He refuses to think that Pierre could be dead. He's not thinking about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's trying very hard not to think about it when someone taps him on the shoulder. "Percy? Percy! Percy, what are you doing? It took us forever to find you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks up, it's the freshman bassist-- Sim-- standing there, Johanna the choir girl and someone Percy doesn't know behind her. They all look frantic, the other girl especially (Percy doesn't think he's ever met her, but she looks familiar-- it's something about the shape of her face, the way her fingers twitch, the precise, nervous movements, that reminds him of someone. It takes him a moment of staring at her to figure out that she reminds him of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Monty</span>
  </em>
  <span>.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm here. I'm just eating. Is eating a crime now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sim doesn't laugh. "We need you and we couldn't find you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>We?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Who's we? What do you need me for?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gestures at the other two girls. "Johanna, Felicity, and I. We have a problem."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, exactly, is your problem?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them look at each other; Johanna opens her mouth, then closes it again, and Felicity speaks up. "My brother is missing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy pauses. "Who's your brother? And why are you asking me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm Felicity Montague," she says, not providing any further clarification.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sim taps her foot. "I told Felicity that she might have luck asking you, since you pay so much attention to him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a moment-- too long of a moment-- to process what this means. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sim!</span>
  </em>
  <span> I do not pay all that much attention to Monty Montague. I may look at him sometimes, but anyone would do that, he's objectively interesting, and I don't know how you decided that I was the best person to ask about-- wait. He's missing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felicity nods grimly. "He took me to a lecture at around midnight, did something or other, then came home at around three-thirty. It woke me up when he opened the front door. I went back to sleep, but was woken up again by a loud noise. In the morning he was gone. None of us know why or where he went."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Johanna says. "Feli is very worried."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> worried," Felicity snaps at her. "It'd just be much better to know that he's at home and safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He came home at around three-thirty," Percy says slowly. "You didn't go to investigate the noise."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. "I don't know why. I just-- didn't. I was half-asleep, and I thought it might be safer not to get myself involved. To keep my head down. That's what I usually do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sim gives her a pointed glance. "Usually?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felicity seems to shrink a few inches, taking a step back. "I've heard-- things, before, at night. I've never wanted to find out what's going on."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy makes a mental note to ask her about that more at some point, in private. "All right. Well. Does your father know anything? Your mother? Did he leave a note?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No. At least, if my father knows anything, about why Monty is gone or anything, he's not talking, and my mother is just worried about him. I haven't searched his room yet-- we're going to, after school, but he didn't leave a note in plain sight."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're going to search his room? Have you tried calling him? Texting him? Email?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I tried </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I called and he didn't pick up, and I guess he's not checking his email, wherever he is."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So we have to find him!" Johanna pipes up. "Before Felicity's father calls the police and it all gets very messy! And we thought you could help us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy sighs. "I'll try, okay? I think I might have an idea."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you care to share with the class?" Sim asks him, giving him a sideways look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why don't I come with you three to search his room after school, okay? That might help. I'll think about it until then, and hopefully work something out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They thank him a few times and then hurry off, the three of them moving in step like geese flying, Sim and Johanna flanking Felicity. Percy imagines they're planning to interrogate someone else-- perhaps by the end of the day, they'll have committed half the school to their cause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy doesn't finish the rest of his lunch. He has more important things to do-- like getting access to a computer, writing one more email, and talking to one Richard Peele.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 16 12:14 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: Monty?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dear Pierre,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm probably leaping to conclusions. This is a ridiculous thing to say. I know you won't reply to this email, because you haven't gotten any of the others I've sent you. (Are you safe? Are you okay? Should I be sorry?) But Felicity Montague just came up to me and told me that her brother is missing, and that he came home around the same time that you sent me your last email.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(She talked about a loud noise and it's making me worry for your safety, wonder what the rest of your family knows, and want to punch someone for your sake. But that doesn't matter.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My point is, you're missing, Monty is missing, both of you are amusing, smart, and attractive people, and I feel like there's some dots to connect here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you're going to tell me to fuck off and stop asking about who you are, I'm fine with that. Any communication is better than this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love, Vio.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Percy finds Richard around the back of the school, drinking soda by himself and looking through his phone with earbuds in. It might just be that he's jealous, but in the heat of the moment, it seems like kicking over Richard's coke can is the best way to alert him of his presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard doesn't agree. After he's got done spluttering various epithets at Percy and raving about how his pants (which are now soaked) were </span>
  <em>
    <span>new,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Percy goes about interrogating him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets straight to the point. "Did you notice Monty is missing?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course." Richard's lip curls. "If he were here, he'd be hanging around me. He's gay, you know. I'm pretty sure he's secretly in love with me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy shakes the thought out of his mind. Monty isn't in love with someone like Richard-- there's no way he could be. Monty is Pierre, and Pierre likes </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so Richard doesn't stand a chance. He never would anyway-- Percy hates him on sight, and he's sure Monty did too. "Do you know anything about why he's gone?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why should I tell you that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard is looking lazily up at him, earbuds still in his ears, and something inside Percy snaps. He clenches his fist, takes a sharp breath in, and punches Richard in the face. It's almost beautiful, the way his cocky expression crumbles. His mouth drops open, and he stares at Percy dumbfoundedly. His nose is beginning to bleed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell me. What do you know about Monty?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been blackmailing him a bit-- he was writing some email to a boy. All sappy and romantic. I took screenshots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Those were </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> emails, his private love letters from Pierre-- Monty-- both, either. He wants to punch Richard again. “No. Never mind that. What did you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He kissed some boy at the party," Richard says, his voice shaking. "I saw him. I took a picture."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I sent it all to his father."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy's blood turns to ice.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. warm light from your stars won't push off the dread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“A parent is positioned perfectly to poison their children, what with how easy it is to slip arsenic into the bottle.” ~ Hannah Bluekill, <em> Savannah and Brook Learn the Meaning of Names. </em></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>To: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 16 3:32 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: re: Monty?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Yes, I'm alive, yes, I'm Monty.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did Felicity figure out who you are? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was three-thirty in the morning when Monty made it home, heard his father on the phone in the next room, and sent his last email. He wasn't coherent then-- he was terrified out of his mind, too torn up on the inside to form complete sentences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It got worse after his father came in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At four-thirty in the morning, his fingers were trembling as he wordlessly bandaged the scrapes. His face is covered with bruises, one eye swelling closed, but he doesn't know how to fix any of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Get out</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his father had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get out, this is no place for you anymore</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Monty is packing a bag (robbing the liquor cabinet, taking all his warm clothing and as much money as he can find) and getting out. It doesn't matter if he has no place to go. Anywhere is safer than here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't email Vio. He doesn't think he could even speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The streets are quiet and empty when he leaves the house at around five with his school backpack stuffed full of sugar and alcohol. It's not cold out, but he's wearing all his clothes anyway, because how else is he supposed to carry them with him? If he ends up having to sleep outside, he'll need them. Monty is suddenly realizing he has absolutely no survival skills. He has nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he goes to the library-- not because he has any interest in reading books, but because they can't kick him out of the library, and there might be some sort of informational guide on what to do when your father beats you and kicks you out of the house. Every bone in his body aches when he moves, the entirety of him screaming in protest, but he has to keep going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's an enormous reference archive in the basement, covered with dust, which still uses a card catalog, and it's there that he camps out between the shelves. It's dark and warm down there; he leans his backpack against a row of encyclopedias, strips down to a t-shirt and jeans, and falls asleep there, half-covered by his discarded clothing. No one disturbs him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes hours later-- he doesn't have a watch, and his phone is probably dead by now, so he doesn't know what time it is exactly, but his wounds are aching stomach is growling. On second thought, it might have been a good idea to pack more significant food than Oreos-- he should’ve stolen the summer sausage, or a block of cheese, or bread or something. He also didn't bring any other bandages, or anything to help with the bruises. Falling asleep, he must have ended up in an awkward position, because it now aches when he tries to breathe. He definitely should have brought something to ease the pain other than alcohol, but Monty isn't known for making wise choices, especially not in the heat of the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eats half a package of Oreos, takes a few swallows of his father's gin, and falls back asleep, hating himself for getting into this situation. If he hadn't kissed Sinjon, or he'd made sure Richard Peele wasn't there before he got himself in a compromising position, or he'd taken Sinjon somewhere else before kissing him, or he'd broken Peele's phone instead of just bolting for his life, he could have prevented this. He's tipsy, trying to sleep on a library floor, aching all over, and he has no way of improving on his situation. There are a hundred thousand ways he could have prevented this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's failed himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the afternoon, he realizes that the library must have computers. Vio's emailed him, he hopes, and maybe he knows the right thing to say in this situation. Vio, with his poet's tongue and his sympathetic kindness. He could make it better. Vio can't heal his wounds or ease his pain or give him a place to stay from his safe distance of anonymity, but he could say something to calm his restless mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hides his things in a dusty corner behind bookshelves that have been shoved together (there's a tiny gap between them that he's just small enough to squeeze through if he holds his backpack over his head) and goes upstairs to look for a computer. He does his best to hide the bruises, keeping his head down and trying not to look at anyone, but he still gets some odd glances. All he can hope for is that they assume he's been in some sort of street fight. Luckily, no one talks to him, no one recognizes him, no one bothers him. He finds a free computer, tilts it so the monitor is facing the wall (he's worried after last time that someone will read over his shoulder) and finds his inbox filled up with Vio's frantic emails. Regardless of how worried he is (and he is worried, he says that a hundred times over, he's worried sick) Vio's writing never gets less beautiful, never becomes incoherent. It almost makes him jealous. He doesn't reply to any of them. What would he say? That everything is fine? It isn't. Nothing will ever be fine again. Vio has given him five reasons to live in one of the emails, but the things he describes seem ridiculously small compared to how broken the world is. What is warm sunlight and the promise of a birthday present, violin music and ice cream and four-leaf clovers and friendship, against the shattered aftermath of the kiss at the party?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last email gives him pause, though. Somehow Vio's figured him out. He wanted Vio to know, of course-- he's considered dropping hints, or just telling him outright so that they could meet in person-- but he didn't expect Vio to find out through his </span>
  <em>
    <span>sister</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of all people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vio's smarter than Monty's given him credit for-- and Felicity must be too. He doesn't see the point in denying that he's who Vio thinks he is, so he just admits to it. There's no telling what Vio will actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> with that information, no reason Vio will still like him if he knows who he really is, no guarantee Vio won't immediately think less of him for being the way he is-- popular and rich, and still not content with what he has, drinking and sleeping away his pitiful sorrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On second thought, he begins to wish Vio didn't know after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there's nothing to be done about it now. He can't do anything but keep moving forward, even though he has nowhere to go. So he sits in front of the computer, ignoring the dirty looks he gets from the library's patrons in line for the computers, and waits for Vio to reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have to wait long-- only a few minutes of mindlessly refreshing his inbox later, an unread pops up. He clicks on it immediately, faster than he's ever reacted to anything other than a punch flying towards his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 16 3:41 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: oh my love</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pierre. Monty. I'm so glad you're alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your sister is worried out of her mind. She didn't have to figure out who I am-- I told them (</span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span> being her, Sim, and Johanna). I just said that I have suspicions that you're my email partner, and she brought up something you'd apparently said in the car last night about emails being your hobby. But first I talked to Richard Peele. He told me what he did to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can you tell us where you are? Please?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girls wanted to search your room, but I told them that isn’t necessary. We're at your house-- your father is at work, but your mother is home. Should we talk to her? She’s worried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there's anything I can do that will help, I'll do it. Just say the word, darling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love, Vio</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Monty doesn't know what to do. He stares at the email for what feels like hours before he can even write a single sentence. On the one hand, he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk to his mother-- she's his favorite parent, even if she's not always necessarily a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> parent, and he feels like he owes it to her. On the other hand, she might side with his father. There's always the chance that she might side with his father. He knows she knows; sometimes his father hits him late at night, while she's asleep, but more often it's in broad daylight, and regardless, she sees the bruises. He's baffled at how Felicity didn't know-- and still doesn't, as far as he's aware. His father had never been careful to keep it a secret around anyone except for people he was trying to impress. He couldn't have it publicly known that he beat his son, of course, but he was always ready with a quick excuse (a fight at school, you know how boys of that age are, a lot of boys do things </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that</span>
  </em>
  <span>). He had enough influence that no one took any of the signs seriously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But inside the house, it was always obvious. And yet his mother ignored it, and somehow, it'd slipped under Felicity's gaze. She'd shown him that, on the few times they'd talked about their parents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There'd been a summer evening when they were sitting outside in the garden, Felicity reading something on her phone that she refused to show him, Monty scrolling absentmindedly through Instagram. Their parents were inside-- he could hear his mother banging pots together in the kitchen, and the light was on in his father's study.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nice to get away from them for a bit, isn't it?" he'd said to her, quite casually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it? I feel like I never see them. Well-- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> them, but I never talk to them. They don't really care about what I do with my time or what I might want. I want-- a lot of things. Different things from what they want from me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd thought about asking her to elaborate, asking her if she knows what they do to him, telling her all about the bloodstains on the floorboards, but instead he'd kept quiet. And she still doesn't know, after all this time. For all her perceptiveness, she can sometimes be very dense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he has to make a decision. He can't camp out in the library forever. He'll run out of food and alcohol, and someone will notice him eventually.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 16 4:22 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: olive branches</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tell Feli that I'm okay, relatively speaking. And I suppose it makes sense to talk to my mother-- but I should talk to her myself. Is there some sort of neutral territory you could bring her to? What about, say, the library? There are conference rooms there. Bring her and Feli. I'll be there when you get here. We can all talk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love, Monty</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits there, his heart pounding out of his chest, for a reply. It seems to take hours (but he compares the timestamps and knows it's only been ten minutes.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From: threepurplenewts@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To: shattered.aftermath@gmail.com</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Date: Oct 16 4:31 PM</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subject: re: olive branches</span>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re on our way. I know you didn’t want to see me, and I didn’t want to meet you like this. Not yet. But I'll do it for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love, Vio</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. only darling, blood runs thick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“He is a representation of the inevitability of survival.” <em>~ Celadon Maristel-Lindsay, Bones and the Art We Make.</em></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Johanna put up a fuss about not being able to go with Felicity, Mrs. Montague, and Percy, under the dubious pretense of being Felicity's moral support, but Sim had decided that it would be better for neither of them to go, and given Johanna a stern look that made even Percy nervous. He doesn't know what it's like to be close friends with Sim, but he's sure he won't ever really find out. She doesn't seem the sort to get attached easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy has other things on his mind. Monty's mother reacted strangely to Monty's disappearance-- she seemed quite worried about where he could be, but didn't seem at all interested in speculating </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> he might have left. Felicity asked whether he'd been injured, whether she was up at three-thirty, whether she's asked Mr. Montague about anything, and she'd just given a noncommittal shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy is quite certain Mr. Montague was involved in Monty's disappearance. Monty's father is still at work, doing whatever it is that men like him do for a living they don't need. Monty has mentioned things before-- being hit, being hurt, his father saying something disparaging about queer people and no one standing up for him. He’s still thinking about it when they arrive.The library is a hulking mass of a building, casting a long dark shadow over the street below it. It's got four stories and two below ground, with curtain-covered windows lining the walls. It's the furthest thing from welcoming, but this is where Monty wanted to meet them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy's terrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty will see him. These are not ideal circumstances-- perhaps, in fact, they're the worst possible circumstances for the two of them to meet, before Monty is ready and while he’s upset and hurt and scared and whatever else is rattling in his mind. It terrifies him how little Percy knows about what's going on with him sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Montague finds an empty conference room and tells Felicity to stay with her, while sending Percy off to go fetch Monty. "You're the one who's been emailing him. I'm sure you can find him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But he didn't tell me where he is," Percy protests, but he's ignored. Felicity mouths "</span>
  <em>
    <span>I believe in you</span>
  </em>
  <span>" over her mother's shoulder, and Percy really can't say no after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least he knows what Monty looks like. He imagines that if their roles were reversed, Monty wouldn't be able to find him at all, having had very little physical description of him, but after squandering hours of English class staring at him, Percy could draw his face from memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn't expecting him to look so beaten-down, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Percy finds him, he's sitting at a computer, the back of his chair against a wall. One eye is swollen shut, and there are poorly bandaged cuts and dark bruises all over his face. His father </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Percy wants to stab Mr. Montague to death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But worst of all is the look in his eyes. He's staring at nothing, a blank expression on his face-- the expression of someone in shock, someone who doesn't know what to do, someone with nowhere to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy wants to murder the person who hurt his Monty (and he realizes suddenly that Monty is </span>
  <em>
    <span>his, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because Pierre is his and they're one and the same, and he finally has a claim to him). He wants to kiss every bruise on Monty’s beautiful face. He wants to pick him up and carry him somewhere away from anyone who could ever hurt him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But instead, he taps him on the shoulder and waits for Monty to look up and see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't move for a moment, then stares silently at him for a moment, his eyes wide. “You’re-- you’re Vio, then?” he says at at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well-- yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I usually go by Percy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s expecting Monty to look disappointed, or just give him a blank expression, but instead he looks delighted. “Yes! Percy. You’re in my English class. You’re really rather handsome, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face is on fire. Monty, to his credit, pretends not to notice, but a smile dances at the corner of his mouth. "Your mother and Felicity are waiting," he manages to stammer out after a few seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty's jaw sets, any hint of happiness vanishing. "All right. I guess I've got to go to them, then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy extends a hand to help him up, and they walk together, Monty leaning on Percy's shoulder, up the stairs and towards where Monty's family is waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy doesn't get to be in the room where they have their discussion. He waits outside, tapping his fingers anxiously, while Monty tells them all about what happened. Something must change after this-- the evil has to be banished, his wounds healed, peace and order restored. It must be done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Percy isn't the one to do it. He knows this. This is between Monty and his family. So he is waiting outside for the other shoe to drop, and thinking about the fact that Monty called him handsome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty likes him. Monty is interested in Percy as well as Vio. He's got a chance. He's been an unattainable dream for so long that Percy has nearly forgotten that he's a person and not a far-off mirage in the distance. Seeing him hurt, knowing he's Pierre, knowing that he's the one person Percy cares most about, has made him realer, closer to the ground. He's not sure how to reconcile his dreams with the harsh light of reality-- but Pierre has always been real. Monty must talk like him, act like the person he knows and loves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy will never know exactly what went on in the room while he kept vigil. He couldn't hear any distinct words, only voices-- Monty, in quiet, mumbling tones, his mother speaking little and slowly, Felicity raising her voice. He knows only the vague dynamics-- he thinks he might hear Monty agreeing with Felicity, backing her up and egging her on. Their mother is reluctant, disagreeing, but Felicity is sharp-tongued. Monty's hardly even a contester in the argument, even though he's the one who disappeared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens nearly an hour later, and Monty slips out, sitting on the bench next to him. Percy reaches for his hand, and Monty lets him take it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you gonna be okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty gives him a tight-lipped smile. "They're still arguing. Felicity thinks my father shouldn't be allowed to come home after what happened. In case he hurts me again. She thinks my mother should leave him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy squeezes his hand, as gently as possible. "I'm sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't be. You're here. I know you didn't want to be here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do want to be here," he protests, realizing it's true as soon as the words come out of his mouth. "I didn’t expect it to be like this-- I wanted it to be romantic, but I’m so glad I can help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty just looks at him for a moment. There's a bruise on his forehead that's almost the shape of a heart, and Percy has a strange urge to kiss it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what to do," he says. "Standing here in the shattered aftermath. My father will come back soon, won't he? I'll have to see him again. I don't-- I can't help it, but I don't want to be here at all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy moves closer to him. "Five reasons?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Monty only nods. Percy takes that as his cue to start listing. "Number one. Because I haven't played the violin for you yet, and I want you to hear me. Number two, because if you were gone I'd have no one to stare at in English class when I'm bored."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You do that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hush. You're very handsome, I think I can't be blamed for looking at you. Number three, so that I can pester you about getting your homework done on time. Number four, so we can hate Richard Peele together."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"God, I hate Richard Peele."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I hate him too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We</span>
  </em>
  <span> hate Richard Peele."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cracks a smile. "We hate Richard Peele!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy continues. "Number five, so I can teach you how to climb a tree."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't need to know how to climb a tree."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, you told me about an incident in which you were trying to escape an awful boy you'd met at one of your father's dinner parties, and you would have done much better if you could climb a tree. There are good trees in my aunt and uncle's backyard. I'll teach you. And then we can sit on its branches and hold hands and stay there until we get hungry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That sounds perfect," he says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It would be perfect. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>you're</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfect. For me, at least."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not disappointed in me?" he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No!" Percy didn't mean for it to come out so loudly. "Why would I? You're </span>
  <em>
    <span>wonderful</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you're lovely, I've had a crush on you for years, of course I'm glad you're Pierre. Or, well, not Pierre. You’re Monty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t I Pierre too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, not really. Pierre isn’t supposed to be good, he’s just supposed to be unfortunate. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>good. But Pierre doesn’t die. You have that in common.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He does die, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you won’t. And I’m so glad you’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, a strange, half-choked sound. "I didn't think you would want to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We're both just fools in love, aren't we?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Percy looks into his eyes and knows they're going to make it, that Monty will escape, that they'll be able to be together, that they'll share smiles and kisses and sunlit hours. They have each other, and Monty has Felicity, and they will do whatever they can to heal each other, to cast their shadows in the world and hold their heads high.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, darling," he whispers, reaching out to touch Monty's cheek as gently as possible. "What a pair of lovely fools."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a continuation oneshot is coming to an ao3 near you, hopefully next week.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>